SONGS    OF    THE    PRESS 

AND   OTHER  ADVENTURES 
IN  VERSE 


BY 
BAILEY  MILLARD 


» 


SAN   FRANCISCO 
ELDER   &   SHEPARD 

PUBLISHERS 
I9O2 


COPYRIGHT,  1902 
BY  BAILEY  MILLARD 


x 

7^^  Murdoch  Press 


To  where  you,  patient  in  your  pain, 

Are  lying,  O  dear  one  of  mine, 
I  send  these  songs  born  of  a  brain 

And  voice  not  tuned  to  airs  divine. 
It  seems  a  deed  of  unblest  birth, 

This  placing  these  in  your  blest  hand, 
They  are  so  sealed  in  sad  unworth, 

But,  Mother,  you  will  understand. 


97269 


CONTENTS 

THE  NEWSPAPER    BALLADS 

PAGE 

SONG  OF  THE  PRESS 9 

MARTYRS  OF  THE  ART  ROOM ...  12 

THE  STAR   WRITER 15 

THE  LAMORE  SCOOP       l8 

AT  THE   CITY   DESK 22 

LITERATURE  OF  THE   RUSHED 25 

THE  ANCIENT  JOURNALIST 28 

OUR   LADY   FASTIDIOUS 30 

OTHER   ADVENTURES  IN    VERSE 

THE  YOSEMITE   ROAD 35 

CARLYLE  TO  JANE 40 

THE   IMPERIOUS   DEAD 45 

MUIR   OF   THE    MOUNTAINS 48 

THE  STAR  AND   THE   WAIF 50 

RHAPSODY   OF  THE   RAIN 52 

SONG  OF  THE  ARCTIC   SUMMER       54 

THE  MASTERED  MEN 57 

THE  AUSTERE  CATECHIST    .    . 60 

THE  CROTALUS 62 

THE  INCOMMUNICABLE 63 

VOICES   THAT  ABIDE 67 

THE  CEANOTHUS 69 

T'  AMO 71 

5 


CONTENTS 

UPIU  NON  VI  LEGGEMMO  A V ANTE  " 73 

THE  MUSE  IS  DEAD 74 

READING  "ENDYMION"      75 

THE  ROSE  POEM 7^ 

THE  LOVED  OF  ZEUS 77 

THE  TRANSPORT 79 

TO  CHARLES    FERGUSON 8l 

RETURN   OF  THE  VAQUERO 82 

THE  WAYS   OF  DORIS 85 

WEARY 87 

THE  INEVITABLE   HOUR 88 

TUSITALA 9° 

THE  APACHE  IN  AMBUSH 93 

BACK  TO  THE  DESERT 94 

PRAYER  OF  YOUTH 95 

THE  MESSAGE 9^ 

SATIRE 98 

LOST  RIVER 99 

TO   EDWARD   CARPENTER   IN   ENGLAND IOI 

THE   DRONES  OF  TOWN IO2 

THE  RED   MENACE ...  IO5 

TEUFELSDROCKH IO6 

SONNETS 

A  DIVINE  TRESPASS 109 

THE  HIGHER   PATRIOTISM HO 

THOREAU  OF  WALDEN Ill 

YOU   FOURIER  FOLK! 112 

UNDER   THE  OAKS  WITH   POE .     .     .    .    113 

6 


SONGS   OF   THE   PRESS 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  PRESS. 

FOR  the  lumbering  locomotive  on  the  run 

A  deep  respect  and  deference  I  confess, 
But   a   fuller   admiration   greets   the   wild   and    free 

gyration 
Of  the  thousand  rolling  wonders  of  the  press, 

Of  the  press, 
Oh,  the  wonders  and  the  thunders  of  the  press ! 

To  the  giant  that  unceasing  turns  the  screw 

Of  a  great  Atlantic  liner  I  address 
A  certain  strained  devotion  while  it  fights  the  bluff  old 

ocean, 
But  'tis  nothing  to  my  reverence  for  the  press, 

For  the  press, 
To  my  dumb  and  blind  affection  for  the  press. 

See  the  league-long  web  of  paper  flying  free ; 

See  the  glistening  ink-black  rollers  pressing  tight 
To  the  plates  whereon  the  letters  are  fast  bound  in 

molten  fetters, 
Letters  telling  tales  of  human  wrong  and  right, 

Wrong  and  right, 
With  a  beatific  bending  to  the  right. 


THE  SONG  OF   THE  PRESS. 

When  the  cylinders  are  humming  like  the  wind 

And  the  paper  spindle 's  whizzing  through  its  stays, 
When  the  darting  tapes  are  guiding  sheets  in  sight  and 

sheets  in  hiding, 
Then  your  comprehension  's  tangled  in  the  maze, 

In  the  maze, 
In  the  mighty,  heaving,  whirring,  burring  maze. 

When  the  printed  papers  down  the  formers  glide, 
When  the  whipping  folders  whisk  them  through  the 

lane 
And  by  fifties  out  they  flutter  through  the  ever-flowing 

gutter, 
There  's  the  fullest  sense  of  garner  and  of  gain, 

Precious  gain, 
A  most  satisfying,  gratifying  gain. 

For  here  the  work  is  finished  that  began 

Over  mountains,  over  seas  before  the  light 
Shone  upon  the  local  center  where  a  people's  zealous 

mentor 
Rounded  out  a  day  of  labor  in  the  night, 

In  the  night; 
Oh,  the  long,  long  day  of  labor  and  the  night  i 

All  completed,  all  accomplished  is  the  toil 

In  the  service  of  the  great  minds  and  the  less ; 


10 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  PRESS. 

Now,  arising  grand  before  us  in  a  sweeping,  swelling 

chorus, 
Hear  the  diapason  boomings  of  the  press, 

Of  the  press, 
And  the  full-toned  vox  humana  of  the  press : 

"  Of  the  mighty  ones  of  Cosmos  I  was  born, 

Of  the  labor  and  the  will  that  ride  the  earth ; 
In  their  energy  kinetic  hear  you  not  the  cry  prophetic, 

'  Here  is  scientific  wonder  at  its  birth'  ? 
I  am  but  a  trumpet  flourish  for  the  works  of  greater 
worth, 

Nobler  worth, 
For  more  glorious,  more  noble  works  of  worth. 

"  I  am  looking,  I  am  looking  to  the  light 

That  is  spreading  in  its  high  auroral  curve; 
Whether  God-made,  whether  man-made,  I  am  but  the 

humble  handmaid 
Of  the  people,  and  the  people  I  would  serve, 

I  would  serve, 
For  the  highest  of  all  missions  is  to  serve." 


ii 


THE  MARTYRS   OF   THE  ART  ROOM. 


THE   MARTYRS   OF  THE  ART   ROOM. 

I  COME  not  with  bold  hexameters  to  batter  down  the 

idols 
Of  a  picture-minded  people  who  love  "  art "  as  they 

love  dress, 
For  my  voice  is  weak  and  fluttering  when  into  song  it 

sidles 
And  you  will  find  it  ever  kind  to  artists  of  the  press. 

I  know  of  the  afflictions  that  beset  the  black-and- whiter 
Who  may  never  choose  his  subject  and  who  draws 

what  he  is  told : 
I  know  his  load  is  heavy,  with  no  hope  of  getting 

lighter, 

And  reward  is  not  forthcoming,  little  glory,  little 
gold. 

It  is  sad  to  see  him  taking  orders  from  a  layman  making 
Up  his  schedule  for  a  full-page  illustration  for  the 

"sup," 
With  a  feeling  for  the  values  that  would  shame  a 

drunken  drayman 

Or  the  keeper  of  the  kennels  where  you  buy  a  collie 
pup. 

12 


THE  MARTYRS  OF  THE  ART  ROOM. 

Sadder  still  to  see  him  stretching  out  to  fill  two  noble 

pages 

A  most  wonderful  designing  of  the  editorial  mind 
For  a  holiday  edition  which  the  grave  and  solemn  sages 
Have  for  weeks  and  weeks  been  planning  to  astonish 
all  mankind. 


Sadder  yet  to  note  the  frowning  brow  with  which  he 

greets  the  paper 
When  he  sees  his  best  lines  battered  and  his  stipple 

clogged  with  mud, 
And  a  weird  smirk  on  the  lady  who  has  cut  the  latest 

caper 

In  divorces,  then  his  eyeballs  are  afloat  with  angry 
blood. 

"  They  have  routed  off  her  lashes,  they  have  smudged 

her  alabaster 

Neck  and  chin  with  sticky  dope.    It 's  all  the  same, 
Whether  good  or  bad  the  drawing,  it  is  sure  to  meet 

disaster ; 

And  down  there  in  that  left  corner,  oh,  why  did  I 
sign  my  name  ? 

"  They  have  etched  that  battle  picture  so  it 's  eaten  up 

by  acid, 

And  the  lines  are  full  of  nightmare  and  the  whites 
are  a  disgrace, 

13 


THE  MARTYRS  OF  THE  ART  ROOM. 

And  that  asinine  plate-nailer,  with  his  donkey  smile  so 

placid, 

Has   let   his    cursed   hammer    fall   upon   my   poor 
girl's  face." 

But  although  the  black-and-whiters  can  relieve  their 

hearts  by  curses, 
The  despairing  color-workers  have  no  language  to 

address 
To  the  subject  of  their  torments,  and  I  may  not  in 

these  verses 

Sing  the  sad  lay  of  the  martyrs  of  the  modern  color 
press ! 


THE  STAR   WRITER. 


THE    STAR   WRITER; 

OR,     "THE    SKATE'S"     LAMENT. 

I  BRING  in  a  great  sensation,  that  is  worth,  on  honor 

solemn, 

More  than  any  other  story  in  the  batch, 
And  the  brainless  copy  butchers  cut  it  down  to  half-a- 

column, 

But  his  rot  they  rattle  up  without  a  scratch. 
Oh,  the  star,  oh,  the  star, 
Oh,  the  shining,  shining  star! 
They  print  all  the  senseless  stuff  that  he  can  hatch. 


He 's  a  faker  of  the  rawest,  I  can  swear  on  twenty 

Bibles, 

And  they  know  it,  but  they  laugh  at  honest  me. 
It  will  take  a  dozen  lawyer  men  to  patch  up  half  his 

libels 

And  each  one  of  them  will  charge  a  whopping  fee. 
Oh,  the  star,  oh,  the  star, 
Oh,  the  high-priced,  low-viced  star ! 
You  may  have  him  if  you  wish  for  him,  but  none  of 
him  for  me. 

15 


THE  STAR   WRITER. 

With  dry  wine  he  heats  his  liver  and  he  smokes  two- 

f  or-a-quarter ; 

Beer  and  stogies  are  the  best  that  I  afford ; 
And  he  calls  himself  a  journalist,  while  I  'm  a  plain 

reporter, 

And  to  see  his  style  you  'd  take  him  for  a  lord. 
.  Oh,  the  star,  oh,  the  star, 

Oh,  the  high  and  mighty  star! 
He  deems  himself  no  lower  than  a  lord. 

He  gets  all  the  soft  assignments,  while  they  put  me  on 

the  tough  ones, 

For  they  know  that  I  can  dig  and  get  the  nub 
Of  a  story  he  'd  fall  down  upon,  and  while  I  fight  the 

rough  ones, 

He  is  lolling  on  the  sofa  at  his  club. 
Oh,  the  star,  oh,  the  star, 
Oh,  the  shining,  shirking  star ! 
Yes,  perhaps  he's  playing  poker  at  his  club. 

He  is   sent   off  to   do   yachting,   he  is   detailed   for 

conventions, 

And  he  loafs  at  watering-places  and  the  like, 
And  the  paper  never  questions  his  most  bald  and  crude 

inventions. 

It 's  enough  to  make  a  truthful  writer  strike. 
Oh,  the  star,  oh,  the  star, 
Oh,  the  incandescent  star ! 
How  he  shines  at  watering-places  and  the  like! 
16 


THE  STAR   WRITER. 

They  let  him  sign  his  scroll-work  and  it  swells  him 

like  a  bladder, 

And  he  thinks  that  he  's  a  genius  on  the  write ; 
But  when  you  come  to  merit  he  Js  not  three  rounds  up 

the  ladder; 

For  he  could  n't  smell  a  story  if  't  was  near  enough 
to  bite. 

Oh,  the  star,  oh,  the  star, 
Oh,  the  overrated  star! 
And  they  give  him  my  best  copy  to  rewrite ! 

There  are  men   in   every  station   traveling  on  their 

reputation, 

But  at  that  game  he  can  give  'em  cards  and  spades ; 
He  will  fall  down  on  a  story  without  any  hesitation, 
And  still  keep  on  a-shining,  for  his  glory  never 
fades. 

Oh,  the  star,  oh,  the  star, 
Oh,  the  empty-headed  star ! 

He  has  nothing  but  his  halo,  and  that  never,  never 
fades. 


THE    LAHORE    SCOOP. 


THE    LAHORE    SCOOP. 

"  TRAIN  robbed  at  Lamore,"  came  the  message, 
And  it  made  me  spring  out  of  my  chair. 

We  were  just  closing  up  our  edition 
And  there  was  n't  a  clock-tick  to  spare. 

I  fired  to  Lamore  a  rush  lightning, 
And  waited  with  fingers  in  hair. 

"  Three  miles  south,"  swift  came  back  the  answer, 

"  Nobody  to  go  for  you  now." 
"  But  our  correspondent  ?  "  I  queried. 

"  Died  Monday."    "  Will  you  go  ?  "  "  Yes ;  how  ?  " 
"  Hire  engine,"     "  None  ready."     "  Ride  horse  then, 

Or  bicycle,  jackass,  or  cow !  " 

"  All  right,"  was  replied,  "  but  it 's  raining, 

And  I  '11  charge  you  a  dollar  an  hour." 
"  Call  it  ten  if  you  rush  in  the  story," 

And  I  sat  back  with  countenance  sour, 
For  of  all  the  blest  dough-heads  and  asses 

Here  surely  was  flower  of  the  flower. 

18 


THE  LAM  ORE  SCOOP. 

We  waited  and  waited  near  press-time ; 

The  minutes  were  nuggets  of  gold. 
But  at  last  the  old  telegraph  rattled 

And  the  fool  at  Lamore  slowly  told: 
"  Nothing  in  it ;  't  was  only  a  hot  box ; 

That  robbery  story  don't  hold." 


But  a  tip  came  from  Goshen— they  knew  it, 
And  the  Times  men  had  covered  it  well. 

'T  was  a  scoop  and  a  big  one,  I  gathered, 
And  the  man  at  Lamore  was  a  sell. 

I  'm  afraid  that  some  pretty  strong  language 
From  my  lips  at  that  moment  there  fell. 

My  call  upon  Goshen  was  frantic : 
"  Send  the  robbery— rush  it,  d.  q." 

"  Nothing  definite  known  at  this  office/' 
Came  swiftly  to  add  to  my  rue, 

And  I  pranced  'round  the  shop  like  a  demon 
With  ten  thousand  imps  to  subdue. 

In  a  moment  the  sounder  was  clicking, 

And  I  read  it  all  off  in  a  flash : 
"  Have  you  got  the  train  robbery  covered  ?" 

It  asked  with  its  dot  and  its  dash — 
Lamore  date.    Again  that  fool  rustic, 

Or  some  other  dolt  just  as  brash? 

19 


THE  LAHORE  SCOOP. 

No !    Glory !    'T  was  our  girl  reporter, 
Who  chanced  to  be  there  on  the  train. 

"  Filed  two  thousand  words  on  a  hazard," 
She  wired,  and  my  joy  was  insane. 

The  treasure,  the  darling,  the  angel ; 
She  had  run  all  the  way  in  the  rain ! 

Her  story  was  graphic  and  simple, 

Not  one  little  sentence  awry. 
The  robbers  had  captured  a  fortune, 

But 't  was  one  thief's  misfortune  to  die, 
And  a  brakeman  was  shot  in  the  stomach 

And  the  end  of  his  braking  was  nigh. 

We  hustled  the  stuff  as  it  came  in, 
And  I  gloated  in  triumph  to  see 

That  the  story  was  full  and  well-rounded, 
Just  as  every  good  story  should  be. 

At  the  tail  of  it— there  my  heart  fluttered — 
I  saw  her  "  Good  night.    Jessie  B." 

We  beat  the  whole  town  with  the  story. 

The  Times  had  enough  for  a  sign 
And  a  small  head,  with  laughable  figures, 

While  the  World  had  n't  even  a  line. 
JT  was  the  very  best  beat  of  the  whole  year, 

But  hers  was  the  triumph,  not  mine. 

20 


THE  LAHORE  SCOOP. 

They  may  cry  down  the  newspaper  women, 
They  may  tell  them  to  go  home  and  sew, 

They  may  preach  and  pray  over  and  scold  them, 
But  for  this  girl  reporter  I  know 

That  rather  than  lose  her  forever 
We  M  let  any  staff  man  of  them  go. 


21 


AT  THE  CITY  DESK. 


AT   THE   CITY   DESK. 

IT  's  a  wonder  that  dear  manager  has  left  a  man  for 

local; 
He  has  sent  out  all  my  writers  on  his  foolish,  fancy 

schemes ; 
There's  a  rattling  double  murder  and  I  need  good 

men  to  poke  all 

Over  town  to  get  the  story,  but  he  has  to  dream  his 
dreams. 


That  sensational  elopement  of  the  rich  girl  and  her 

lover 
Needs  a  half-a-page  and  pictures,  but  it 's  little  that 

he  cares 
For  he  won't  wake  up  till  press  time,  and  he  thinks 

that  I  can  cover 

All  the  city  with  these  skatelets  and  a  score  of  empty 
chairs. 


If  I  sent  out  on  the  murder  that  fool  college  chap  he  M 

chowder 

Up  the  story,  for  although  he  's  full  of  Latin  and 
of  Greek, 

22 


AT  THE  CITY  DESK. 

It  would  take  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  of  brown 

prismatic  powder 

To  arouse  him  up  to  action,  he  's  so  wooden  and  so 
weak. 


Now,  my  boy,  you  must  see  to  it,  that  lean  lady  poet 

ceases 
To  get  near  me  with  her  verses,  and  from  out  the 

building  coax 
That  queer,  old  dried-up  animal  who  'd  have  us  print 

his  thesis 
On  political  economy  among  the  Fiji  folks. 


There  's  a  whistle  down  the  pipe  to  ask  just  how  we 

missed  the  "  riot " 
Of  the  strikers,  swelled  and  padded  by  those  fakers 

of  the  World, 
And  the  telephone's  a-ringing,  for  it  never  can  keep 

quiet ; 

How  I  wish  that  into  Hades  all  its  bells  and  things 
were  hurled. 


Oh,  it 's  great  to  be  a  desk  man,  for  his  life  is  full  of 

glory! 
Yes,  of  glory  and  of  luxury  and  ease  it 's  always  full. 


AT  THE  CITY  DESK. 

Here  's  a  note  from  the  proprietor  a-killing  my  best 

story, 

For  the  man  we  would  have  roasted  has  a  business 
office  pull. 


Oh,    they're    resting    on    their    details    and    they're 

dreamy  and  they  're  dopy, 
And  that  cursed  court  reporter  has  to  go  off  on  his 

spree, 
And  the  star  men  do  the  dude  act  and  forget  to  send 

in  copy, 

But  there  's  some  one  has  to  hustle,  I  can  tell  you, 
and  it 's  me. 


THE    LITERATURE    OF    THE    RUSHED. 


THE    LITERATURE   OF   THE   RUSHED. 

"  How  do  journalists  grind  their  grist?" — Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

How  do  the  journalists  grind  their  grist? 
Learn,  sir,  from  the  lay  of  an  optimist. 

Scuttering  in  on  the  train, 

Crowded  and  vulgar  and  hot, 

Jostled  at  elbow  and  back, 

Writing  "  society  "  rot. 

Scratching  a  pad  on  your  knee, 

With  pencilings  jagged  and  rough; 

Interrupted  by  telegrams  three : 

"  Why  the  blank  don't  you  rush  in  your  stuff  ?" 

Or,  perhaps,  you  sit  down  at  the  side 

Of  the  crude  rustic  telegraph  plug 

Who  wires  off  your  screed  while  you  scrawl 

And  by  his  fool  questions  are  dug: 

"  That  word  '  cut '  ?    Why,  I  thought  it  was  '  cat/ 

That  '  Johnson  '  ?    Looks  like  it  was  '  Jones.' 

Guess  you  never  learned  how  to  write." 

And  so  on,  in  spite  of  your  groans. 


THE    LITERATURE    OF    THE    RUSHED. 

Or  crushed  in  a  stale,  stuffy  hall 

Where  you  write  down  the  speech  of  a  dunce 

While  flanked  by  a  hundred  old  hens, 

Eighteen  of  them  cackling  at  once ; 

And  even  if  all  take  the  floor, 

While  the  chairwoman  screams  like  a  hawk, 

Still,  still  you  must  follow  the  trend, 

Though  the  trend  be  a  tangle  of  talk. 


And  when  you  sit  down  at  your  desk 

To  write  up  a  long  interview, 

On  one  side  the  type-writer  clicks 

And  your  poor  head  is  dictated  through 

By  the  great  star  who  never  can  write 

But  bawls  in  a  regular  flow, 

And  you  grind  while  they  click  and  they  clack, 

Whether  you  love  it  or  no. 


Or  grabbing  each  sheet  while  you  write, 

A  boy  takes  it  up  to  the  room 

Of  the  night  man  whose  job  is  to  feed 

The  great  typographical  loom. 

As  you  scrawl,  thunders  break  up  above ; 

Their  roarings  your  tired  ears  rend, 

And  clenching  your  fingers  you  cry, 

"  How  the  deuce  did  that  last  sentence  end? 


26 


THE    LITERATURE    OF    THE    RUSHED. 

Wise  men  read  the  paper  and  say, 

"  He  split  his  infinitive  there, 

And  the  wrong  tense  he  used  in  this  place. 

Such  rhetoric— is  n't  it  queer?" 

It  ought  to  be  perfect,  of  course, 

And  never  by  any  chance  mushed — 

Smooth  of  phrase,  clear  of  thought  and  well-turned, 

This  literature  of  the  rushed. 


THE   ANCIENT  JOURNALIST. 


•  THE  ANCIENT  JOURNALIST. 

I  SAW  him  close  the  door  and  shuffle  out, 

A  broken  man, 
Full  of  incertitude  of  self  and  doubt 

Of  what  there  ran 

In  new-age  harmony  the  world  along— 
The  new  world,  singing  its  new  song. 

Too  old  to  know  the  later  way  of  life, 

Too  old  to  feel 
Or  grasp  the  meaning  of  its  rush  and  strife, 

Too  blind  to  steal 

More  than  a  glimpse  of  that  which  cast 
Its  light  upon  him  as  it  shimmered  past. 

And  this  he  knew  that  day  in  its  first  woe, 

For  he  had  thought 
To  keep  somewhat  within  the  ebb  and  flow, 

Know  what  was  wrought 
In  this  wide  world  of  working  and  of  wit, 
From  day  to  day,  and  sense  the  worth  of  it. 


THE   ANCIENT   JOURNALIST. 

But  anciently  none  better  knew  the  signs 

That  told  of  war 
Or  peace  or  brooding  change.     He  read  the  lines 

And  saw  afar. 

His  times  were  times  of  sturdy  views, 
And  what  he  surely  knew  for  news  was  news. 

But  now  has  sprung  a  race  of  pressmen  pert, 

Born  of  the  age 
Of  cleverness,  who  frisk  and  featly  flirt 

With  pen  on  page ; 

With  them  he  cannot  join,  and  if  he  try 
His  pen  but  stiffly  turns,  and  turns  awry. 

Old  man,  and  not  yet  old  (so  swiftly  flies 

Time's  stream  with  those 
Who  slave  where  whirls  the  press),  small  is  your  prize 

At  this  dread  close 

Of  your  long  service.    Would  that  you  might  greet 
That  recompense  of  labor  which  is  meet. 

But  still  a  certain  glory  sits  you  there; 

I  would  not  change 
You  in  your  place  for  highest  or  most  rare 

In  all  the  range 

Of  pressmen,  good  or  bad  or  worse, 
Who  cleave  to  cleverness  nor  know  its  curse. 


29 


OUR  LADY  FASTIDIOUS. 


OUR    LADY    FASTIDIOUS. 

SHE  receives  her  assignment 
With  air  condescending 
From  the  desk  man  so  gracious, 
Who  fears  of  offending, 
Though  deepest  misgiving 
His  bosom  is  rending 
That  she  '11  not  pursue  it 
To  good,  fruitful  ending. 

It  takes  but  a  trifle 
From  duty  to  flop  her; 
She  must  be  assisted 
By  blue-coated  copper. 
She  '11  turn  back  in  a  minute 
If  aught  be  improper, 
But  if  she  's  determined 
There  's  nothing  can  stop  her, 

She  's  mindful  of  weather ; 
It  mus  n't  be  sloppy ; 
Her  gown  she  's  a  care  for ; 
She 's  fussy  and  foppy. 

30 


OUR  LADY  FASTIDIOUS. 

Should  there  be  a  shower 
She  '11  bring  in  no  copy, 
And  if  reprimanded 
Get  red  as  a  poppy. 

Her  face  is  what  makes  her, 
You  list  to  my  ditty ; 
It  is  n't  her  work,  for 
She  's  not  very  witty. 
But  there  is  no  other 
In  all  the  great  city 
So  queenly,  so  dainty, 
So  proud  and  so  pretty. 

She  misses  good  stories; 
Suppose  that  the  rest  did? 
They  'd  be  thrown  from  the  office 
Where  snugly  they  're  nested. 
But  the  powers  overlook  her, 
She  's  never  molested. 
If  an  editor  chide  her, 
He  's  sure  to  be  bested. 


She  knows  how  to  manage 
Desk  men  if  they  scout  her. 
She  can  play  the  grand  lady 
Or  rank  out-and-outer. 


OUR  LADY  FASTIDIOUS. 

She  can  cry  if  they  happen 
To  quizz  or  to  doubt  her  ; 
She  '11  tear  up  her  copy 
If  they  dare  to  flout  her. 

Yes,  as  a  reporter 
There  's  nothing  will  cover 
Her  rank  imperfections, 
And  no  power  above  her 
Can  hasten  or  check  her 
Or  pull  her  or  shove  her. 
Then  why  do  we  keep  her  ? 
Why,  all  of  us  love  her ! 


OTHER    ADVENTURES    IN    VERSE 


•  THE    YOSEMITE    ROAD. 

UP  where  the  gray  peaks  serenely  take  counsel  together 
My  desire  mounts  as  lightly,  as  lightly  as  wind-wafted 

feather ; 
But  I  go  with  no  haste,  for  all  time  in  the  road  lies 

before  me, 
And  my  roan  ambles  gently  as  if  with  a  joyance  he 

bore  me. 
I  ride  by  the  red  banks,  by  gulches  and  waterworn 

sluices, 
Exulting  in   spring  and  its  earth-smells  and  liberal 

juices. 

All  the  delicate  firstlings  of  leaf-flocks  on  branch  tips 

are  swelling, 
Unrolling,  outspreading  and  gleaming  and  tremblingly 

telling 

Their  rapturous  story, 
Unfolding  the  glory 

Abiding  in  Nature's  all-compassing  breast, 
Each  leaflet  narrating  with  ardor  and  zest. 

Ah,  road !  I  am  with  you  to  ride  and  to  ride  where  you 

lead  me, 
And  on  your  rare  sights  and  calm  joys  to  most  royally 

feed  me; 

35 


THE    YOSEMITE   ROAD. 

You  open  the  way  to  the  ultimate  heights  of  adventure ; 

Your  promise  is  sweet,  and  if  ill  befall  I  shall  not 
censure. 

When  pious  aspirants  to  hills  and  their  holy  sincerities 

Fare  hither  their  faith  is  renewed  in  the  infinite  verities ; 

You  guide  to  the  Summits  of  Solace,  remotest  immu 
nities 

From  the  clamorings  strange  of  the  hasting  and  hiving 
communities. 


The  airy  affairs  of  the  birds  in  their  business  of  nesting 
And  of  squirrel  philosophers  grave  that  on  high  boughs 

are  resting, 
The  stream  babbling  nonsense  to  bowlders  of  gray, 

freckled  granite 
Below  where  the  maidenhair  trembles  in  breezes  that 

fan  it,— 
Each  of  these  makes  quick  captive  a  wayfaring  fancy 

of  mine, 

And  my  heart  gives  a  leap 
As  in  passing  I  peep 
Up  the  towering  shaft  of  a  bold  sugar-pine. 


There  at  last  are  the  snow-peaks,  in  virginal  chastity 

standing ! 
Through  the  nut-pines  I  see  them,  their  ranges  and 

ridges  expanding. 

36 


THE    YOSEMITE   ROAD. 

Ye  peaks !    from  celestial-wrought  sanctities  benisons 

casting, 
Ye   know    not    your   puissant    influence,    lifting   and 

lasting : 
Nothing  factitious,  self-conscious  or  impious  bides  in 

you; 
Your  faith  it  is  stalwart. and  truthfulness  ever  resides 

in  you. 

On  your  high  serenities 
No  hollow  amenities 

Nor  worldly  impurities  cast  their  dread  blight ; 
August  and  courageous,  you  stand  for  the  right ; 
The  gods  love  you  and  lend  you  their  soft  robes  of 

white. 


Down  by  the  bridge  where  the  white  tumult  dashes 

with  thunderous 
Roarings  and  splashings  and  wildest  of  wild  sprawlings 

under  us, 
We  speed,  horse  and  rider,  and  clattering  carelessly, 

wildly  go, 
Swift  reaching  the  meadows  beflowered  where  rillets 

so  mildly  flow. 
By  the  pine-bordered,  sweet-scented,  sun-favored  flat 

we  pass  slowly  on, 
While  a  music  is  wafted  from  somewhere,  unearthly, 

^Eolian. 


37 


THE    YOSEMITE   ROAD. 

Here  hovers  the  question, 

"  What  is  this  suggestion 

Disquietly  brooding  o  'er  stream  and  o  'er  grass  ?  " 
Yet  on  to  the  pinewood  and  thicket,  unheeding  I  pass. 


Rumorings,  murmurings  low  and  obscure  intimations, 
Mysterious  whisperings,  thrillings  and  awesome  ela- 

tions ! 
From  that  interspace  vast  there  what  is  it  the  wind  is 

forth  sending? 

Does  it  augur  a  vision  ?    Is  aught  of  an  evil  impending  ? 
The  tamaracks  listen  and  listen  and  feel  the  strange 

awe  of  it. 
You  tall  pine,  bent  backward  affrighted,  oh,  tell  what 

you  saw  of  it! 
Ye  domes,  looking  down  with  that  feigning  of  placid 

indifference, 
Ye  know,  O  ye  wise  ones,  the  source  of  this  fear  and 

this  reverence! 


Across  the  great  gorge  there  the  cliffs  arise  mystical, 
magical, 

And  a  cloud-puff  swims  over  the  gulf  space  so  hell- 
deep  and  tragical. 

Dismounting,  I  fearsomely,  cautiously  move  to  the 
brink  of  it, 


THE    YOSEMITE   ROAD. 

The  wonder,  the  wonder  eternal  to  feast  on  and  drink 

of  it; 
I  creep  between  bare  granite  rocks  to  a  high  shelf's 

extremity, 
And  with  dizzying  terror  and  rapture  commingled  look 

down  on  Yosemite! 


39 


CARLYLE    TO    JANE. 


CARLYLE    TO    JANE. 

After  Mill  had  told  them  of  the  loss  of  the  "  French  Revolution1*  manuscript 
which  the  historian  had  lent  him  to  read. 

PRAISE  God,  he  's  gone  at  last !    A  score  of  words 

Had  told  the  tale  of  it,  but  we  must  have 

A  babblement  of  hours  and  hours.    Ah,  well ! 

I  'm  sorry  for  the  man ;  he  seemed  to  be 

Nigh  daft,  and  pale  he  was  as  Hector's  ghost. 

And  his  bewildered  wrestlings !    His  wild  eyes ! 

He  scarce  could  mumble  forth  the  awful  words 

Which  came  to  me  as  sentence.    Oh,  how  flimsy 

That  sad  pretense  I  made !    What  did  I  say  ? 

I  know  I  spoke  no  ill.    His  grief  was  such 

I  must  respect  it  and  I  did ;  but  there 

Between  us  lay  the  dismal,  ghastly  fact— 

The  manuscript  I  lent  him  was  no  more ! 

Thrown  by  a  zealous  flunky  to  the  flames, 

With  other  rubbish  stuff !    "Well,  don't  lament," 

I  said;  "another  I  can  make,  to  all 

Intent  the  same !    I  said  it,  yes,  and  laughed ; 

For  men  may  laugh  on  scaffolds.    He  laughed,  too, 

Like  any  nervous  girl. 

O  Jeanie,  lass ! 

The  book  is  burnt— that  travail  gone  for  naught! 
The  book !   The  book !   Gone— every  sheet !   Our  book, 

40 


CARLYLE    TO    JANE. 

My  Jeanie — yours  and  mine — our  own,  own  bairn ! 

God  sent  none  other  children  but  our  books, 

And  this,  our  proudest,  lies  in  ashes,  dead — 

Swept  out  by  some  low  hireling's  broom.    That  book 

Was  wrought  from  out  my  veins;    my  heart's  best 

blood 

Was  spread  on  every  page.    And  you,  my  lass, 
Bright  as  a  steady  lamp,  beamed  there  beside 
My  desk  and  lit  my  weary-plodding  pen ; 
And  when  the  coming  chapter  lay  but  dim 
Within  the  hazy  background  of  the  brain, 
You,  by  your  kindly  patience,  listening  close, 
Braced  its  weak  claim  to  clarity.    And  when 
You  glowed  with  warm  approval  then  I  knew 
I  had  wrought  well,  nor  needed  other  sign 
To  make  me  know  the  dream  I  dreamed  was  true. 
No,  Jeanie,  't  is  no  marvel  ye  are  sair ; 
Your  arms,  close  clinging  round  my  neck  tell  that, 
As  do  your  tears. 

"  We  '11  make  another  book- 
It  's  very  counterpart  ?  "     Oh,  you  are  wild ! 
I  told  Mill  that  but  now.    Words,  lassie,  words  I 
The  idlest  words !    This  business  of  books 
I  'm  done  with  for  all  time !    What  do  they  care 
For  true  books  who  are  so  well  pleased  with  false  ? 
Do  they  deserve  such  meat  as  I  have  given— 
They  who  deem  cat's  meat  fittest  food  for  man  ? 
But  from  their  stupor  I  could  sting  these  slaves,— 
Had  thought  to  do  so  once,  but  now  no  more. 

41 


CARLYLE    TO    JANE. 

Yes,  I  could  make  'em  wince,  the  pompous  churls, 
And  churchmen,  too,  and  smooth  respectables 
Of  all  kinds  and  degrees! 

Mill!    What  cared  he? 
Flabby  fanatic  theorist,  full  of  wind! 
He  offered  pay.    Ye  heard,  lass— pay  for  that! 
A  rain  of  ingots— would  it  stead  a  man 
For  such  fierce  work— a  book  born  of  his  soul? 
Could  he  have  rightly  priced  one  precious  page 
Of  that  good  book,  he  never  would  have  left 
The  thing  to  hands  of  saphead  servitors. 
He  never  sensed  its  worth.    He  could  not  read 
Aright  a  single  line.    So  dense,  so  dense 
These  animate  clothespegs,  these  poor  beechen  brains ! 

"  Write  it  again  ?  "   Nay,  lassie,  I  have  done 

With  all  this  writing.    Let  us  gang  elsewhither — 

To  Weimar— Weimar,  eh?    Why  not?    But  there 

It  would  be  books  again— more  books;   No,  no! 

I  couldna  keep  me  from  the  writing  there. 

Let  us  go  overseas  to  some  wild  land, 

Some  Michigan,  where  men  can  work  like  men 

And  be  men.    I  am  sick  o'  this  dour  town, 

This  London— ugly  wen  on  Nature's  face.  „  \C 

Let 's  to  the  desert,  lassie ;  we  but  eke 

A  living — ay,  a  starving,  in  this  place; 

And  there  I  would  break  whinstone  or  cut  peats. 

Oh,  I  would  work  with  axe,  or  spade,  or  hoe, 

Or  anything  but  pen ! 

42 


CARLYLE    TO    JANE. 

There,  there!    I  hurt 

Ye,  lass,  and  ye  were  hurt  full  sair,  God  kens ! 
In  that  drear  Craig-o-putta  you  'd  enough 
Of  desert,  dear.    We  '11  nae  go  overseas, 
but  where  ?   "  To  desk — write  it  again  ?  "    Ah,  why 
Do  you  so  mock  and  mock  ?    You  've  never  writ 
Ten  books  in  one  and  had  the  whole  ten  burnt. 
"Write  it  again  ?  "    Oh,  cease !    Don't  tell  the  tale 
,  Of  it  to  tempt  me.    Well  I  know  it  all. 
"And  once  again  could  write  it?  "    Oh,  I  could! 
Calonne,  Marat  and  Mirabeau.    What  use? 
Fall  of  Bastille !    Ay,  ay!    We  warmed  to  that ! 
"Can  warm  again,"  say  you?    Yes,  can!    But  gods! 
All  that  strained  heart-work !    Ay,  the  old  Bastille ! 
Let 's  think,  let 's  think :   The  rebel  din,  the  yells 
And  roar  and  rush  and  wild  upturn  of  faces. 
Oh,  yes,  I  could!    "And  will?"  insist  you— "  will?  " 
Ay,  Jeanie,  will!    It  shall  be  done!    It  shall! 
It  shall!    That's  good,  lass,  smile. 

I  know  they  care 

Not  for  me !    I  can  see  their  flashing  harness 
In  the  Park.    You  smug !  you  prurient  smug ! 
You  self-pleased  highnesses !  you  valiant  ones ! 
Who  there  amang  ye  all  could  write  that  book 
But  once?    What  man  of  ye  could  write  it  twice? 
Yet  7  can  do  it  and  I  will ;  yes,  I. 
I  '11  write  it  and  I  '11  throw  it  at  your  feet, 
And  you  may  trample  it.    What  say  you,  lass? 
"They  cannot  trample  that?  "    Weel,  if  they  did 

43 


CARLYLE    TO    JANE. 

'T  would  last  as  long.    They  cannot  hurt  the  thing 

Or  me.    I  '11  build  it  better  than  it  was 

And  it  shall  stand,  a  book  to  last  for  ages. 

I  do  not  write  for  them,  but  for  that  time 

When  men  shall  get  their  sight ;  when  they  shall  see 

With  clear  eyes,  not  gold-blinded  ones! 

Now,  lass, 

To  bed,  to  bed !    This  night  I  'm  here  with  you ; 
To-morrow  I  shall  be  with  old  King  Louis, 
Bien-aime,  and  see  him  die  again ; 
See  crimson  lightnings  of  revolt  strike  France, 
And  live  the  fierceness  of  mad  peasants'  rage. 
But,  ah !  the  task  of  Robespierre  himself 
Was  not  more  dread,  more  terrible  than  mine ! 


44 


THE    IMPERIOUS    DEAD. 


THE   IMPERIOUS   DEAD. 

UNTO  a  desperate  heart, 
Here  on  thy  sands,  what  hope,  O  Sea, 
Canst  send  to-night  and  what  of  sympathy 

As  here  I  sit,  alone,  apart, 

Watching  the  white  foam  from  thy  surges  start 
And  swiftly  shoreward  flee? 


Last  night  we  walked  this  shore, 
Slow,  with  ineffable  joy  as  swift 
As  the  fleet  foam  which  came  from  thee,  a  gift 

Of  gladness,  thy  pervasive  roar 
Making  a  music  I  may  hear  no  more, 
A  lyrical  uplift! 


On  wave-tips  to  the  skies 
A  trail  of  liquid  light  ran  higher, 
Yet  paler  than  my  pulsing  heart's  desire 
When  the  large  moon  the  fall  and  rise 
Of  her  sweet  bosom  lit  and  her  dark  eyes 
Grew  lustrous  with  love's  fire. 


45 


THE    IMPERIOUS    DEAD. 

But  what  had  she  discerned 
Within  mine  eyes  that  the  strange  fear 
Of  me  should  dart  and  dim  and  disappear 

In  hers  and  dart  again  ?    I  turned, 
Though  all  my  animate  being  burned 
To  press  anear,  anear! 


Now  once  more  to  the  brim, 
To  drink  and  ever  after  have 
The  cup  and  my  heart  in  exultance  lave. 

But  swift  love's  fire  waned  dim 
Before  the  interposition  silent,  grim, 
Of  a  forgotten  grave ! 

That  lowly,  weed-grown  mound 
Uprose  and  outspread  high  and  far, 
An  awful,  imminent  alp,  to  bar 

From  me  the  sweet  that  I  had  found 
Most  sweet  of  all ;  forbiddingly  it  frowned 
And  hid  from  me  my  star ! 

''From  my  sad,  sorrowing  sight, 
Dead  face,"  I  moaned,  "canst  thou  not  keep 
Thy  features  white  ?    Dead  form,  why  dost  thou  creep 

Out  of  the  mold  to  mock  the  night, 
This  night  of  all  blest  nights  most  blest,  most  bright? 
Dead  eyes,  oh,  why  not  sleep  ?  " 

46 


THE    IMPERIOUS    DEAD. 

And  now  we  drift  away, 
Apart,  and  shall  I  surely  know 
If  that  low  mound  may  ever  keep  it  low? 

Will  those  dead,  wistful  eyes  obey 
My  word  and  that  dead  form  in  darkness  stay, 
No  more  to  grieve  me  so  ? 

A  cloud  floats  low  upon 
The  waves,  belike  a  black-sailed  bark, 
And  two  stretch  forth  white  hands  from  out  the  dark. 

Illuminate  with  flame  of  love  is  one 
And  one  is  cold,  her  sweet  face  white  and  drawn 
And  her  snow-bosom  stark! 


Now  one— the  quick— sinks  fast; 
The  dead  remains,  her  two  white  hands 
Still  stretching  forth  to  me  upon  the  sands, 

As  one  who  to  the  ultimate  cast 
Keeps  faith  and  willingly  forgives  the  past 
And  weaves  anew  love's  bands. 

I    read    thy   answer,    Sea, 
Writ  in  the  influent  foam  and  tide 
And  in  the  cloud :   Thou  sayest  she  that  died 

Still  lives  love's  holy  life  for  me, 
And  that  for  me  no  other  bride  may  be 
But  that  bright  spirit  bride ! 

47 


MUIR    OF    THE    MOUNTAINS. 


MUIR  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

A  LEAN,  wild-haired,  wild-bearded,  craggy  man, 
Wild  as  a  Modoc  and  as  unafraid, 
A  man  to  go  his  way  with  no  man's  aid, 
Yet  sweet  and  soft  of  heart  as  any  maid. 

Sky-loving,  stalwart  as  the  sugar-pine, 
Qean,  simple,  fragrant  as  that  noble  tree, 
A  mountain  man,  and  free  as  they  are  free 
Who  tread  the  heights  and  know  tranquillity. 

A  man  whose  speech  hints  of  no  studied  art, 
But  careless  straying  as  the  stream  that  flows 
And  full  of  grace,  poetic  as  the  rose 
Which  to  the  wind  its  pure  song-petals  throws. 

A  relish  of  the  larger  life  is  his 
And  reverence  rapt  and  wonder  and  deep  awe 
For  any  beauty  Nature's  brush  may  draw, 
A  man  of  faith  who  keeps  each  primal  law. 

Along  the  secret  ways  of  Nature  he 

Makes  careful  quest,  and  she  unto  him  speaks 

And  shows  him  that  so  eagerly  he  seeks, — 

How  toils  the  Hand  that  sculptures  all  the  peaks. 

48 


MUIR    OF    THE    MOUNTAINS. 

The  skylands  brown,  the  blest  sky-waters  blue 
He  haunts  and  has  a  curious,  kindly  eye 
For  glaciers,  where  his  bold  feet  dare  to  try 
The  dizziest  summits  and  their  threats  defy. 


A  coarse  and  stinted  fare  to  him  is  rich 
If  it  be  seasoned  with  the  savory 
Sweet  airs,  while  his  glad  eye  is  feasting  free 
Upon  the  blue  domes  of  Yosemite. 


He  makes  his  bed  amid  the  sheltering  rocks 
Where  at  his  head  a  blood-red  snow-flower  blooms ; 
There  sleep  more  sweetly  comes  than  ever  comes 
In  the  stale,  heated  air  and  dust  of  rooms. 


Unarmed,  he  greets  the  grizzly  in  the  woods, 
Birds  trill  him  friendly  notes  from  tree-tops  tall ; 
The  ouzel,  thrush  and  quail  and  whimsical 
Gray  squirrel  and  raccoon— he  loves  them  all. 


Alone  he  treads  the  heights,  yet  not  alone, 
For  with  him  go  sweet  Thoreau  and  the  blest 
Kin-spirits  all  who  share  his  noble  zest 
For  Nature's  ways  and  with  him  walk  and  rest. 


49 


THE  STAR  AND    THE    WAIF. 


THE   STAR  AND   THE  WAIF. 

A  STAR  looks  in  where  she  lies, 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep, 

With  wide,  blue,  fixed  and  staring  eyes, 
A  sinful,   sweet-faced  sacrifice, 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep. 

The  beams  of  the  star  intermit, 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep. 

And  darkling  and  drooping  and  sadly  flit, 
Full,  oh,  how  full  of  the  pity  of  it ! 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep. 

Now  the  eye  of  compassion  is  clear, 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep. 

Through  the  gloom  of  the  room  doth  it  reverently  peer 
And  sees  a  wan  smile  on  the  dead  face  there, 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep. 

"Oh,  now  you  are  free  from  shame, 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep." 

Sighs  the  star,  with  pitying  passion  aflame, 
"  Now  you  are  free  from  the  shame  and  the  blame, 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep. 

50 


THE  STAR  AND    THE    WAIF. 

"  But,  ah,  when  I  saw  you  before, 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep, 

Would  I  had  cared  for  you,  guarded  you  more, 
A  guide  to  you  been  in  the  street's  strange  roar, 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep. 

"Yet  this  did  your  fate  decree, 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep. 

But  not  of  the  lost  and  accurst  shall  you  be ; 
Come,  spirit,  speed  to  your  home  with  me ! 

Fair,  so  fair,  asleep." 


A    RHAPSODY    OF    THE    RAIN. 


A  RHAPSODY  OF  THE  RAIN. 

WIND-SWEPT,  rain-spattered,  wildly  free, 

I  tread  the  upward  trail,  wet  tree-arms  beckoning  me. 

Again  I  see  in  Nature  what  is  mine; 

I  feel  the  friendship  of  the  kindly  pine, 

And,  passing,  lay  my  hand  on  its  moist  dress 

In  soft  caress. 

Now  all  the  savage  in  me  gloats, 

For  oh  a  humid  air-wave  floats 

The  thrumming  of  the  forest  lyre ! 

Higher  I  mount  and  higher, 

Singing  a  Dryad's  storm-wild  strain 

In  the  mad  rapture  of  the  rain ! 

\ 

A  fugue  of  echoes  upward  sweeps, 

Making  strange  music  on  the  steeps. 

As  each  bold,  high-swung  turn  I  pass  along, 

I  feel  a  rarer  joy  of  life  and  hear  a  sweeter  song. 

The  soft  rain  drips  from  God's  high  eaves 

And  lisps  its  true  love  to  the  leaves. 

(But  truer  far  my  love 

For  her  above!) 


A    RHAPSODY    OF    THE    RAIN. 

Oh,  what  to  me  their  creeds  and  cults 
While  on  these  sacred  heights  my  soul  exults? 
What  all  their  sordid  gain? 
I  know  the  rapture  of  the  rain ! 


The  ridge  I  reach — a  sight — 

The  sea  spread  out  in  swirling  light! 

And  up  the  wooded  reach 

Come  roarings  from  the  beach. 

But  only  misty  welcome  signals  me 

From  yon  cold  shimmer  of  the  sea. 

No,  not  for  that  I  dared  the  storm, 

But  for  a  greeting  sure  and  warm 

From  one  who  waits  alone — 

My  own — my  own ! 

Ah,  there  I  see  her  low  brown  roof  at  last ! 

Heart,  heart  of  mine,  why  throb  so  fast  ? 

A  gust  sweeps  down  the  rippling  drops  amain, 

Again  the  rapture  of  the  rain ! 


53 


SONG   OF   THE   ARCTIC   SUMMER. 


SONG    OF    THE    ARCTIC    SUMMER. 

JUNE  on  the  Yukon,  genial  June, 
And  all  my  soul  awake  for  it ! 

Would  I  might  round  a  Norland  rune 
And  Norland  music  make  for  it. 


Red  fire-weeds  blaze  along  the  banks, 
Backed  by  the  pines'  dark  mystery, 

And  wild  birds  flutter  and  give  thanks, 
Or  sing  their  southern  history. 


Their  thanks  they  sing  on  bending  reed, 
For  here  the  day  is  long  for  them, 

And  here  the  night  is  lost,  indeed, 
And  full  the  hours  of  song  for  them. 


Near  is  night's  noon  and  yet— this  light; 

It  scarce  is  comprehensible. 
Of  what  we  know  of  day  or  night 

Is  the  circling  sun  insensible  ? 


54 


SONG    OF    THE   ARCTIC   SUMMER. 

Afar  beyond  the  fishing  boats, 

Beyond  that  darkling  dot  of  earth, 

That  tree-crowned  islet,  round  which  floats 
A  glory  that  seems  not  of  earth, 


Between  two  cloud-bars  red  he  swims, 
Bright  skeins  of  color  weaves  in  them, 

And  now  he  darts  and  now  he  dims, 
And  stains  of  purple  leaves  in  them. 


His  ruddy  glow  reflects  below, 
Making  the  waters  pink  with  it, 

And  opal  wavelets  gleam  and  flow 
Upon  the  tide  and  sink  with  it. 


Midnight !  and  still  above  the  lines 
Of  sky  and  river,  fair  and  bright, 

A  golden  book-mark  there  he  shines 
'Twixt  two  day-pages,  rare  and  white. 


Midnight!   and  still  his  rays  are  rife; 

My  hopes  and  dreams  all  meet  me  there. 
Full  symboled  is  the  deathless  life; 

Here  and  hereafter  greet  me  there ! 


55 


SONG   OF   THE  ARCTIC  SUMMER. 

He  hath  not  set,  yet  doth  he  rise, 

He  riseth  in  serenity; 
May  we  thus  keep  in  brighter  skies 

Our  orbits  through  eternity ! 


THE  MASTERED  MEN. 


THE  MASTERED  MEN. 

THE  City  lifts  her  lure  and  smiles, 
The  millioned  City  smiles  because 

She  knows  the  magic  of  her  wiles 

And  how  to  her  she  draws  and  draws. 


She  knows  full  well  a  man  will  sell 
His  soul  to  live  his  precious  days 

In  an  effluviated  hell 

At  some  sad  corner  of  her  ways. 


That  all  the  virtues  of  the  vale, 

Of  tree-fringed  hill  and  grassy  down 

He  madly  leaves  for  street-walks  stale 
And  brick  perspectives  of  the  town. 


He,  when  her  call  he  hears,  leaves  all 
His  bird-blessed,  leaf-draped  heritage 

To  slave  and  run  at  whistle-call 

Or  pale  and  droop  in  some  foul  cage. 


57 


THE  MASTERED  MEN. 

He  leaves  the  freedom  of  the  plain, 
The  freedom  of  the  glade  and  glen, 

The  freedom  of  the  wind  and  rain 
To  join  the  tethered,  mastered  men. 


In  lieu  of  sacred  airs  of  lake 
And  mountain  he,  in  ignorance, 

Inhales  the  odors  sewers  make 

And  dwells  in  din  and  dissonance. 


If  him  the  servile  cheer  and  toast 
When  the  red  gold  he  sought  is  his, 

He  sadly  finds  they  honor  most 
That  which  he  has,  not  what  he  is. 


The  hale  and  simple  way  of  life 
To  which  his  sober  mind  was  used 

Is  changed  for  Trade's  swift-whirling  strife, 
So  complex,  multifaced,  confused. 


Lost  is  his  day  of  real  things; 

In  vain,  in  vain  his  lamp  he  rubs; 
To  him  stale  life  it  only  brings, 

The  sham  life  of  the  streets  and  clubs. 


THE  MASTERED  MEN. 

On  village  maids  the  City  feasts, 

On  their  bright  hopes  and  brighter  eyes, 

On  their  red  cheeks  she  and  her  beasts 
Feed,  and  for  truths  she  gives  them  lies. 


Still  on  fresh  blood  she  feeds  and  feeds 
And  still  she  tramples  Nature's  laws 

To  glut  her  never-sated  greeds, 

And  still  she  draws,  and  draws,  and  draws? 


59 


THE    AUSTERE    CATECHIST. 


THE    AUSTERE    CATECHIST. 

To  WHAT  do  you    respond— 

You  who  would  link  with  me 

In  that  fine  federacy 

Called  friendship?    Are  you  fond 

Of  those  sad  folk  unblest 

Who  make  of  life  a  jest? 

Does  Dante  bore  you,  is  old  Plutarch  tame 

And  Emerson  an  empty  name  ? 


Do  you  want  tact  ? 

Shrink  you  from  any  cosmic  fact 

Or  influence  elemental? 

Would  you  be  instrumental 

In  war  upon  a  weakling  race  for  Mammon's  sake 

And  urge  a  moral  reason,  make 

A  bombast  plea 

Of  ethnic,  high  philanthropy? 

Who  are  your  heroes— men  that  fight  in  rings? 

What  moves  you?    Love  you  him  that  sings 

A  glavering  ballad?    Oh,  do  you 

Respond  to  echoes  or  to  voices  true? 

60 


THE    AUSTERE    CATECHIST. 

Do  you  want  courage  your  best  self  to  be, 
And  live  in  others'  cheap  expectancy  ? 
Fear  you  to  front  the  facts  of  life? 
World-contacts  do  you  shun  and  holy  strife? 

Have  you  lost  faith, 

Is  God  a  guess,  religion  but  a  wraith, 

Your  heart  lukewarm? 

Do  you  bow  down  before  the  shrine  of  Form 

And  basely  kneel 

At  altars  of  convention  nice,  and  feel 

Not  the  fine  and  good 

In  wholesome  humanhood, 

Although  it  wear  the  apron  of  a  smith? 

Is  Christ  to  you  a  myth? 

Subtly  and  always  is  your  sense  alert 

To  serve  the  ends  of  self  ?    For  the  inert, 

Crass,  gilded  fools  who  know  no  law 

Have  you  the  least  of  awe  ? 

If  to  all  these  you  say 

An  everlasting  "  Nay/' 

Then  shall  we  make  an  intimate,  holy  pact  and  be 

As  brothers  to  the  end,  to  dare  and  dree 

World-onsets  at  their  worst.    .    .    .    Ah!  your" Nay : 

rings  so  true, 

Were  I  but  worthy  so  to  do, 
I  would  a  spirit  kinship  claim  to  you. 

61 


THE    CROTALUS. 


THE  CROTALUS. 

A  COIL  of  browns,  a  whirr! 

A  dart  of  flame! 
A  child's  shrill  cry,  amid  the  grass  a  stir; 

She  shrieks  my  name! 
In  agony  she  calls 

And  calls.    O  God ! 

Why  hast  thou  made  this  slimy  thing  that 
crawls 

Thy  chastening  rod? 


62 


THE    INCOMMUNICABLE. 


THE   INCOMMUNICABLE. 

ABOVE  the  sea  the  moon's  slim  horn 
Pales  fast  in  gray  and  growing  light, 
And  now  I  see  the  death  of  Night, 

The  old-new  marvel  of  the  Morn. 


The  waters  glow,  a  burst  of  rose 
Reflects  soft  glory  on  our  sails; 
Now  upward  shoot  Dawn's  shining  trails, 

And  swift  the  dazzling  wonder  grows. 


But  I  stare  dull  at  what  is  wrought, 
As  by  the  hearth  one  sits  and  stares 
Into  the  fire  that  brightly  flares, 

My  utmost  vision  set  at  naught. 


This  mystery  deep,  and  wide  as  deep, 
Of  day-birth,  as  of  child-birth,  lives 
In  man's  mind  vaguely.  It  but  gives 

Suggestions  such  as  come  in  sleep. 


THE    INCOMMUNICABLE. 

But  what  is  borne  from  out  the  vast 
Of  sky  and  sea,  so  faint,  obscure, 
Amorphous,  wordless,  should  be  sure 

And  plain  as  that  plain,  stalwart  mast. 


Though  he  read  glibly  ancient  glyphs 
And  wisely  scorn  the  riddling  Sphinx, 
What  secrets  bide  man  little  thinks 

Within  the  clouds  that  cap  the  cliffs. 


While  his  brief  ken  may  be  employed 
He  yearns  for  what  the  blue  arch  bars, 
To  know  the  story  of  the  stars, 

To  read  the  verse  writ  in  the  void. 


His  earthling  Science,  mole-eyed,  creeps 
Along  the  paths  that  lead  to  light. 
What  says  to  her  the  star-strewn  height, 

What  speaks  to  her  from  out  the  deeps  ? 


And  if  the  secret  springs  defy 

Man's  eager  touch  nor  will  unclasp, 
Shall  there  yet  lie  beyond  his  grasp 

The  answer  to  his  "What  am  I  ?  " 


THE    INCOMMUNICABLE. 

Oh,  would  that  it  were  fit  and  meet 
That  there  might  speak  unto  our  race 
The  spirit  of  illimitable  space 

That  sits  aloft,  aloof,  discrete ! 


An  east  wind  sweeps  the  sea,  and  soft 
From  out  its  murmurs  come  the  words, 
Faint,  faint  as  notes  of  far-off  birds, 

That  singing,  wheeling,  soar  aloft : 


"  Not  star-wise  shall  your  people  grow 
Nor  god-wise  shall  they  ever  be 
Till  from  their  false  ties  they  are  free 

And  free  from  all  their  sham  and  show. 


"  To  read  Apocalyptic  signs 

They  must  be  free  from  sins  of  flesh, 
For  while  their  lusts  their  souls  immesh 

They  may  but  faintly  see  the  lines. 


"Free  must  they  be  from  crimes  of  trade, 
From  foolish  vauntings  of  their  worth; 
And  they  must  free  their  sorry  earth 

From  war,  from  rapine  and  from  raid. 


THE    INCOMMUNICABLE. 

"From  those  sad  lures  that  have  enticed 
And  made  him  prey  to  vulture's  beak 
Man  must  turn  face  and  humbly  seek 

The  plain  and  simple  way  of  Christ. 


"  In  vain  his  orisons  prepense ; 
He  shall  not  reach  to  Heaven  fair 
Though  he  may  pile  a  Pelion  prayer 

Upon  his  Ossa  of  offense. 


"Let  him  look  up,  let  him  arise 
And  scorn  the  pathway  he  hath  trod; 
Then  shall  the  finger-touch  of  God 

With  sight  divine  thrill  his  dull  eyes !  " 


66 


VOICES   THAT  ABIDE. 


VOICES  THAT  ABIDE. 

THE  sovereign  poet  will  not  cease  to  sing 

While  notes  arise  from  any  living  thing 

Of  which  he  sang.    Earth  still  will  gladly  hail 

The  voice  of  Keats'  in  its  last  nightingale. 

What  soars  above  us  softly?     Hark,  friend,  hark! 

Blithe  Shelley's  song  swells  forth  from  that  blithe  lark ; 

And  see  where  wings  his  soul !    Yes,  't  is  the  same 

With  many  more  the  clear  fire  of  whose  fame 

Is  fanned  by  sight  of  objects  animate 

Or  void  of  life  when  they  are  seen  with  eyes 

That  look  with  fondness  on  the  poet's  state 

And  are  most  blest  when  soft  before  them  rise 

His  strains  celestial.    Doth  not  Wordsworth's  voice 

Speak  from  the  modest  primrose?    I  rejoice 

When  darkly  flits  a  waterfowl  alone 

Through  evening  skies,  for  there  I  see  mine  own 

Good  Bryant  soar;    and  if  a  broad  sea, marsh 

Spreads  green  or  gray  before  me  I  can  hear 

The  voice  of  that  sad  Southron,  never  harsh, 

But  always  sweet,— the  liquid-toned  Lanier. 

And  where  a  rugged  island  greets  mine  eye 

I  hail  the  homely  Stevenson  and  Skye. 

67 


VOICES   THAT  ABIDE. 

The  busy,  singing  brook  I  gaze  upon 

Gives  glimpses  glad  of  sweet- voiced  Tennyson ; 

And  when  a  bell  booms  sadly  forth  in  low 

Dirge  tones  it  peals  for  me  the  name  of  Poe. 

The  stately  arches  of  cathedrals  old 

Say  "Emerson."    When  to  mine  ear  I  hold, 

On  any  shore,  beside  what  waves  and  foams, 

A  chambered  shell,  it  whispers  to  me,  "  Holmes ! " 


68 


THE    CEANOTHUS. 


THE  CEANOTHUS. 

MY  hills  are  poets ;  all  the  year 
They  sing  to  me  their  lays  sublime ; 

They  sing  joy  songs  with  voices  clear 
And  sweetest  sing  in  April  time. 


Then  they  their  purple  robes  put  on, 
Robes  spun  in  April's  lilac  looms, 

Their  royal  flowered  robes  they  don, 
For  then  the  ceanothus  blooms ! 


Oh,  kingly  poets  are  my  hills ! 

But  kingliest  in  April  time, 
For  then  each  green  breast  gladdest  thrills 

And  pulses  with  most  royal  rhyme. 


These  are  the  days,  the  singing  days, 
When  my  king-poets  send  aloft 

Their  highest,  purest  songs  of  praise, 
Strains  of  the  ceanothus  soft. 


THE    CEANOTHUS. 

Faint,  faint  at  first,  then  deeper  toned 
Till  all  the  banks  are  gowned  and  caped, 

And  my  hill  monarchs,  high  enthroned, 
Are  in  the  ceanothus  draped ! 


Stay,  Spring !  still  let  my  monarchs  wear 
Their  robes  and  sing  their  songs  sublime ; 

Let  it  be  April  all  the  year 
And  always  ceanothus  time! 


70 


T  AMO. 


T  AMO. 

From  the  Italian  of  Cavallotti. 

I  SEEK  through  the  pages  of  fable 

For  the  sweetest  way  love  I  may  tell, 
With  what  words  on  the  island  Calypso 

Tried  Ulysses,  the  bold,  to  impel, 
In  what  accents  the  love-devoured  Venus 

Communed  with  the  hunter  that  day ; 
I  study  the  pages  of  fable, 

And /  love  thee— naught  else  I  can  say. 


From  the  sweet  songs  of  Orpheus  I  gather 

No  word  that  will  help  to  impress 
On  thy  heart  a  new  sense  of  my  loving, 

Though  closely  the  leaves  I  address ; 
What  he  sang  to  his  love  I  would  sing  thee, 

My  voice  I  would  gladly  make  ring ; 
But  my  poor  notes  are  feeble  and  broken. 

/  love  thee— 'tis  all  I  can  sing. 


In  the  verses  of  Sappho  my  questing 
Is  rewarded  by  nothing  more  bright ; 


r  AMO. 

I  am  weary  of  pages  so  musty. 

Ah,  here  in  the  dark  is  a  light ! 
Here  it  is— here  is  the  phrase,  dear, 

That  I  sought  for  so  long !    It  is  Greek. 
Construe  it?     Why,  yes.     T  is— "I  love  thee! 

And  those  words  alone  would  I  speak. 


72 


PIU  NON   VI  LEGGEMMO  AVANTE." 


"PIU  NON  VI  LEGGEMMO  AVANTE." 

"  WE  read  no  more  that  fatal  day 

Of  the  love  tale  of  Lancelot 
And  Guinevere."     Oh,  do  not  lay 

Your  fault,  Francesca,  and  your  blot 
Upon  the  book,  for  it  doth  say 

Not  merely  how  those  fell,  but  what 
Befell  their  sinning  and  the  way 

That  they  atoned  for  what  they  wrought. 

That  tale,  that  sorry  tale,  I  ween, 
Had  you  read  further,  lady  fair 

Of  Rimini,  you  would  have  seen 
How  they  of  Camelot,  perjured  pair, 

Were  slain  by  love,  nor  had  you  been 
Betrayed  by  false  Paolo  there, 

Nor  felt  the  vengeful  blade  so  keen- 
Had  you  read  further,  lady  fair! 


73 


THE   MUSE    IS   DEAD. 


THE   MUSE   IS   DEAD. 

THE  Muse  is  dead  and  with  her  dies,  alas ! 

Appreciation  of  her  noble  worth! 

When  now  we  hear  a  line  of  classic  song 

'T  is  oftener  intoned  with  pert  burlesque 

Than  otherwise.    Sincerity  serene 

And  Reverence,  are  both  the  souls  of  you 

Forever  fled  from  this  our  poor,  blind  age  ? 

Come  back  and  make  these  babbling  creatures  sane, 

The  drivel  of  their  drawing-rooms  displace 

By  that  sweet,  sacred  sense  which  makes  man  man 

And  woman  woman,— such  a  worthy  sense 

And  humor  true  as  had  our  wise  forbears 

Who,  fired  in  heart  and  soul  by  Freedom's  torch, 

Wrought  out  for  us  that  liberty  which  we 

So  much  abuse.    Rise,  Reverence,  oh,  rise, 

And  here  be  reinstated,  even  here. 

Sincerity,  if  thou  canst  strive  against 

Such  flagrant  mockings  and  such  meannesses, 

Return  to  us  before  the  last  true  speech 

Be  drowned  in  floods  of  glavering  babblement! 


74 


READING  "ENDYMION." 


READING    "ENDYMION." 

"A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever." 
Dear  Keats,  'tis  very  plain  to  me  you  never 
Knew  Madge,  more  beauteous  than  Helen  of  Troy. 
Oh,  she  is  far  more  grief  to  me  than  joy ! 


75 


THE    ROSE    POEM. 


THE   ROSE   POEM. 

LIKE  that  gold  rose  I  '11  shape  thee, 
With  bright  rose  leaves  I  '11  drape  thee, 

And  thou  shalt  be  divine, 

O  budding  song  of  mine ! 

In  my  hand's  hollow  grow, 

No  matter,  swift  or  slow, 
So  that  thou  be  a  rose. 


Fond-nurtured  hour  by  hour, 
Grow  in  my  hand,  my  flower 
Of  song !    I  spare  no  art 
To  make  each  petaled  part, 
Each  leaf   and  every  tint 
A  blossoming  truth,  nor  stint 
My  labor  or  its  throes. 

Fragile  and  fragrant  rise, 
My  flower,  a  lyric  prize! 
Grow  in  what  sun  and  rain 
Haunteth  the  poet's  brain. 
.  .  .  Thou  'rt  finished !    Each  sad  fault  I  see. 
And  in  my  hand  I  crumple  thee, 
Thou  false,  false  rose! 

76 


THE    LOVED    OF    ZEUS. 


THE    LOVED    OF   ZEUS. 

LOOK  on  the  roll,  star-strewn,  illuminate, 

Of  sages,  of  the  great,  the  time-revered. 

Who  of  all  these  through  life  his  true  course  steered, 

Lived  his  philosophy?    Not  the  sedate, 

Calm  Socrates  who  left  to  austere  fate 

His  close  kin-folk  and  stroked  his  Sophist  beard 

'Midst  fellows  fond ;  not  Plato  learned  who  reared 

In  Athens  grove  his  school,  god-loved  and  great, 

But  never  lived  his  dream ;   nor  yet  that  wise 

Old  teacher  of  the  walking  school,  far-famed, 

Nor  fawning  Seneca  of  Nero's  court, 

Nor  Antoninus,  he  who  kept  his  eyes 

Upon  the  stars  while  his  brute  soldiers  maimed 

And  blinded  Christians  in  arenic  sport. 

Nor  did  that  noble  pagan,  good  Montaigne, 
Cleave  to  the  worthy  creed  he  made ;  and  when 
Rousseau,  arraigned  by  his  own  contrite  pen, 
Made  known  his  grosser  self,  the  damning  stain 
Was  plain  revealed.    So,  too,  in  that  sad  strain 
Which  to  Carlyle  was  life  we  see  again 
That  sages  are  but  men,  not  more  than  men, 
Not  like  the  gods  that  on  Olympus  reign. 

77 


THE    LOVED    OF    ZEUS. 

But  that  white  light  which  fiercely  beats  upon 

The  deeds  of  those  who  raise  philosophies 

Found  one  at  Concord  who  feared  not  its  fire : 

It  vainly  searched  the  life  of  Emerson. 

A  constant  habit  of  high  thought  was  his ; 

He  lived  the  laws  he  taught  and  none  taught  higher. 


THE    TRANSPORT. 


THE  TRANSPORT. 

A  DEEP  blue  bay,  a  bristle  of  masts, 
A  transport  sailing  out  to  sea, 
And  a  flutter  of  white  that  waves  to  me 

As  I  strain  to  the  sight  of  it  while  it  lasts, 
And  he  sails  out  to  sea. 

He  would  go,  he  would  go,  though  the  way  was  far ; 
The  gleam  of  the  guns  and  the  uniformed  line 
Caught  his  young  fancy,  as  once  they  caught  mine 

In  a  righteous  war,  in  a  holy  war, 

And  he  sails  forth  on  the  brine. 

That  clutch  of  his  hand  I  can  feel,  I  can  feel ! 
And  I  know  'tis  the  last  that  an  unkindly  fate 
Will  give  to  me  soon  or  give  to  me  late. 

Away  he  is  borne  on  a  fleeting  keel, 
Away  through  the  Golden  Gate. 

Oh,  gladly  I  'd  give  him  again  and  again 

To  a  war  of  worth,  to  a  war  of  right ; 

Yes,  they  might  slay  him  there  in  my  sight ; 
But  not  for  Trade  and  its  treasoning  men 
Would  I  see  him  go  forth  to  fight. 

79 


THE    TRANSPORT. 

I  have  lost  the  white  flutter,  my  tear-wet  eyes 

Have  lost  it  forever  and  him,  I  know ; 

The  smoke  dims  the  stripes  of  the  flag  I  loved  so 
And  still  love  though  it  waves  in  this  sad  emprise 
Of  empire  in  which  he  would  go. 

Down  to  the  islands  to  fight  for  Trade, 
Past  the  sad  islands  where,  in  the  name 
Of  Christ,  we  have  taught  all  they  know  of  shame 

And  shown  them  their  nakedness,  there  unafraid 
He  sails  to  the  lure  of  fame. 

Where  the  tide-rip  battles  above  the  bar 

The  ship  breasts  the  wind ;  I  am  losing  her  now 
And  losing  him,  too,  who  stood  in  her  bow 

And  waved  and  waved  as  he  sailed  afar. 
Oh,  blest  be  the  heart  of  him  now ! 

Only  the  smoke-drift  over  the  wave 
I  can  see  as  I  look  to  the  watery  west, 
Only  the  black  smoke,  black  and  unblest 

As  an  unholy  cause,  and  there  to  his  grave 
Sails  my  bravest,  my  truest,  my  best. 


TO    CHARLES    FERGUSON. 


TO  CHARLES   FERGUSON. 

HERE,  where  the  leaves  the  whole  year  through 
Are  green  and  roses  bloom  'midst  dew 
And  fruits  hang  fair,  I  dream  anew 

Of  that  gray,  arid  zone 
Which,  as  it  bears  and  ripens  you, 

Is  fruitful  as  our  own. 

Your  gospel  of  the  open  air 

And  of  the  free  God  dwelling  there 

Strikes  at  the  ramparts  of  Despair 

And  lays  the  stalking  wraith 
Of  theist  fiction  which  you  dare 

In  your  fine,  fragrant  faith. 

The  truths  sublime  which  you  address 
To  this  sad  age  of  storm  and  stress, 
This  wilderness  of  worldliness, 

Where  you  cry  out  your  word, 
Will  ever  forward,  forward  press ; 

They  must  be  heard  ! 


81 


RETURN   OF    THE    VAQUERO. 


RETURN   OF  THE  VAQUERO. 

ONCE  more  I  am  under  your  spell, 
Gray  land  stretching  far  to  the  peaks ; 

Drear  land  and  dear  land,  it  is  well, 
For  your  spirit  to  mine  again  speaks, 
Of  blessedness  primal  it  speaks. 

I  was  tempted  afar,  I  was  sold, 

But  they  never  shall  sell  me  again 

To  the  ease  of  town  shelters  that  hold 
Subtle  charm  for  the  pale,  indoor  men, 
Sordid  cities  that  lure  sordid  men. 

Free !   how  I  have  chafed  to  be  free ! 

Year  followed  dispirited  year 
The  while  you  were  waiting  for  me, 

Waiting  calmly  to  welcome  me  here; 

Now,  chastened,  I  come  to  you  here. 

I  am  come  as  one  who  has  felt 
The  Punitive  Hand  in  its  haste, 

While  before  the  false  altars  he  knelt ; 
I  am  come  to  forget  in  this  waste 
A  life  that  was  waster  than  waste. 
82 


RETURN  OF  THE  VAQUERO. 

Waste?     You  are  no  waste,  gray  old  plain, 
But  rich  in  rich  gifts  to  the  mind 

Not  born  of  inanity  vain ; 

Arid  fancy  may  aridness  find, 

But  your  beauty  is  not  for  the  blind. 

/It  is  good  to  be  here^  it  is  good 

To  see  junipers  storm-proof  whose  roots 

Burrow  deep ;   good  yon  lone  cottonwood ; 
Good,  afar  there,  the  blue  blur  of  buttes — 
My  religious,  my  sky-loving  buttes ! 

Beyond  where  the  gray  greasewoods  nod, 
Where  my  gaze  the  bold  sentry  peaks  bar, 

A  buzzard  is  spying  abroad, 

Mystic  spirals  are  leading  him  far, 
And  he  pleaseth  mine  eye  like  a  star. 

Enough  of  repressions,  enough 
Of  constraints  and  conformities  sere 

And  complexities ;  let  the  good,  rough 

West  wind  of  this  plain  sweep  them  clear; 
Its  breath  makes  me  franker  and  freer. 


And  out  of  my  ears  let  it  blow 

All  echoes  of  that  dreary  school 
Which  of  Nature  is  always  the  foe 

83 


RETURN  OF  THE  VAQUERO. 

And  which  for  his  wealth  hails  the  fool, 
Drive  out  all  the  drawing-room  drool! 

Ah,  eloquent  land!    I  have  heard, 

Blown  abroad  on  your  wild,  vagrant  airs, 
A  balm-bringing,  sense-soothing  word, 

A  word  to  calm  all  my  despairs, 

A  whisper  of  starry  affairs. 


Wise  land,  in  your  silences  wise, 

Your  immensities  one  spreading  scroll 

Of  deep  revelation  to  eyes 

That  can  read,  let  me  read,  swell  my  soul ; 
Here  is  room  for  the  growth  of  a  soul ! 


THE     WAYS    OF    DORIS. 


THE    WAYS    OF    DORIS. 

MAIDEN,  in  this  mild  mood 

You  seem  something  grown 
Afar  from  elf-loved  wildwood, 

In  tamest  haunts  of  town, 

Not  this  morning's  thing  of  tumult  that  raced  the  hill 
side  down, 
With  wild,  wind-fluttered  gown. 


Your  ways  the  fancy  capture; 

I  love  them,  each  and  all, 
Gray  qualm  and  reddest  rapture, 

And  when  your  blithe  notes  fall 
Adown  the  darkening  valley  amid  the  redwoods  tall 

I  love  their  sweet  home-call. 


In  hours  when  all  the  magic 

Of  life  is  gone  amiss, 
And  there  looms  aloft  a  tragic 

Blanc  to  bar  out  bliss, 
All  tears  and  sighs  and  murmurs  I  can  toss  in  the  abyss, 

So  potent  is  a  kiss. 


THE     WAYS    OF    DORIS. 

Soft  as  the  vine  caresses 

Your  window  when,  contrite, 
The  chastened  wind  confesses 

Unto  the  ear  of  night, 
So  soft  your  footstep  presses  amid  the  fern  leaves 

bright, 
So  soft,  so  soft  and  light. 


To  you  glad  eyes  are  lifting, 

Star-eyes  of  flowering  grass; 
For  you  the  rill  is  shifting 

Its  gleaming  crumbs  of  glass; 
The  laurels  bend  and  whisper  their  love  for  you,  sweet 

lass, 
And  bless  you  as  you  pass. 

What  wing  is  Fancy  trying? 

From  this  far  would  you  be? 
For  the  gay  town  are  you  sighing 
That  knows  not  bird  or  bee? 
Ah,  that  blithe  lark-note  has  caught  you,  brought  you 

flying 
Back  to  the  flowers  and  me ! 


86 


WEARY. 


.WEARY. 

I  WOULD  be  far  from  this; 

I  would  be  where  the  green  waves  kiss 

The  coral  isles ; 
I  would  return  no  more; 
I  would  abide  for  aye  upon  that  shore 

Where  ocean  smiles. 


There  I  would  live  my  dreams 
Making  to  be  that  which  now  seems, 

And  look  the  whiles 
Through  the  gold  haze  that  smooths 
Harsh  outlines  and  the  tired  spirit  soothes, 

Ah,  my  blest  isles ! 


THE    INEVITABLE    HOUR. 


THE    INEVITABLE    HOUR. 

WHERE  will  it  find  me,  where? 
Within  this  sweet,  wide-windowed  room 
Where  I  look  out  upon  the  green  and  bloom 

Of  hills  high  rising  in  blue  air 
And  that  sky-hallowed  peak,  pure  as  true  prayer? 
If  here,  here  let  it  come. 


Or  will  it  seek  the  trail 
And  meet  me  there  beneath  a  pine 
With  needles  glimmering  glad  and  breath  benign? 

So  be  it  then.    Why  should  I  quail, 
When  by  the  kindly  tree  the  light  shall  fail 
From  out  these  eyes  of  mine  ? 


Or  in  the  street-whirl  mad — 
A  misstep,  clangings  of  a  bell 
And  then  oblivion?    Well,  ah  well! 

To  make  such  parting  from  this  glad, 
Sweet  life  were  sad,  but  not  so  sad 
As  one  that  I  may  tell : 


88 


THE    INEVITABLE    HOUR. 

Where  greedy,  fond  heirs  grieve 
While  of  the  fat  will  steadfastly 
They  think,  and  where  a  specious,  paid-for  plea 

Goes  up  from  cleric  lips  that  cleave 
To  cant,  where  high-feed  doctors  give  life  false 

reprieve, 

And  cat-foot  lackeys  look  for  things  to  thieve. 
Not  there,  O  Death,  meet  me ! 


89 


TUSITALA. 


TUSITALA. 

HERE  is  the  beach  of  gray  old  Monterey 
Where  he  was  used  to  walk  who  made  so  bright 
The  hours  with  his  blithe  presence  and  the  light 
Of  whose  kind  hazel  eyes  made  glad  the  day 
While  tales  he  told  of  his  far  Galloway, 
From  which  so  sadly  he  had  forced  his  flight. 


He  left  the  charm  of  his  sweet  humanhood 
Here  in  this  place,  the  charm  that  Nature's  men 
Possess  and  radiate.     I  feel  it  when 
The  low-bowed  cypress  in  the  wind  doth  brood 
Upon  his  memory  and  the  green  pinewood 
Smiles  proudly,  pleased  to  have  inspired  his  pen. 


That  gypsy  Tusitala,  whose  strange  life 

Was  one  fierce  battle  with  the  reaper  grim, 

We  keep  in  mind;    his  wild  tales  grow  not  dim, 

But  start  up  in  us  like  a  call  of  fife 

To  volunteers.     We  loved  his  love  of  strife, 

We  loved  his  pirate  way,  and  we  loved  him. 

90 


TUSITALA. 

We  knew  that  he  was  wise,  but  now  we  know 

No  local  oracle  was  he,  but  one 

Who  spoke  for  every  land  beneath  God's  sun. 

We  knew  that  he  was  brave,  but  did  not  go 

So  far  with  him  that  we  could  see  the  foe 

He  faced— that  foe  from  whom  he  would  not  run. 

When  Death  bent  over  him  and  his  white  page 
Grew  black  before  his  eyes  he  made  no  cry, 
No  moan,  but  said :  "  I  have  not  time  to  die !  " 
And,  brushing  Death  away  in  noble  rage, 
Turned  to  his  folio  and  wrote  his  sage 
Epistle  or  his  tale  of  tragedy. 

Yet  they  denied  him  bread- work— they,  the  wise 
Among  us  who  refused  his  proffered  screeds. 
He  would  not  cheaply  write  to  suit  their  needs. 
His  worth  such  little  minds  could  never  prize. 
When  his  great  soul  blazed  through  his  fervid  eyes 
They  could  not  see,  nor  sense  his  splendid  deeds. 

Our  shipmate  he  with  whom  we  voyaged  far 
To  islands  of  the  south  for  pirate  hoard 
And  high  adventure.     When  the  typhoon  roared 
He  laughed,  for  Faith  was  ever  his  clear  star ; 
Nor  did  he  care  when  past  the  harbor  bar 
For  better  wage  than  just  to  be  aboard. 

91 


TUSITALA. 

But  he  has  sailed  beyond  his  treasure  isle 

And  walks  the  deck  with  Scott  and  Hugo  now, 

Or  speaks  with  Dumas  grave  and  tells  him  how 

He  loves  his  art,  or  listens  to  Carlyle; 

There  sometimes  he  may  see  sweet  Milton  smile 

And  to  King  William  make  his  loyal  bow. 


92 


THE   APACHE   IN   AMBUSH. 


THE    APACHE  IN  AMBUSH. 

SEE  him,  prone  on  his  belly  behind  the  mesquite, 
In  his  ears  a  low  music,  a  song  that  is  sweet ; 
Is  slaying  so  sweet? 

He  is  waiting  and  waiting ;  ah,  well  can  he  wait ! 
For  he  feeds  upon  fancy,  he  feeds  upon  hate; 
How  well  he  can  hate ! 

Yonder  dust  marks  the  victim,  so  soon  to  be  dust, 
And  behind  the  mesquite  there  grows  rankly  the  lust, 
The  blood-lust,  the  brute-lust! 

The  crisp  cactus-clump  and  the  green  yucca  stand 
In  the  range  of  the  marked  one ;  ah,  well,  that  sure 

hand 
Never  fails— cunning  hand! 

T  is  not  long  now  to  wait,  not  much  longer  to  wait ; 
And  he  feeds  upon  fancy,  he  feeds  upon  hate; 
How  well  he  can  hate! 


93 


BACK    TO    THE    DESERT. 


BACK   TO    THE   DESERT. 

CALL  it  the  land  of  thirst, 
Call  it  the  land  accurst, 

Or  what  you  will ; 
There  where  the  heat-lines  twirl 
And  wild  dust-devils  whirl 

His  heart  turns  still. 


He  sighs  for  no  green  earth 
Where  the  glad  spring  makes  mirth 

To  glad  skies  above. 
Oh,  for  the  desert  grim 
And  what  it  means  to  him 

Of  life  and  love ! 


Back  to  the  land  he  knows, 
Back  where  the  yucca  grows 

And  cactus  bole ; 
Where  the  coyote  cries, 
Where  the  black  buzzard  flies 

Flyeth  his  soul! 


94 


PRAYER  OF  YOUTH. 


PRAYER   OF  YOUTH. 

DEAR  God  of  Truth,  O  be  Thou  ever  near  me, 

Lend  me  Thy  countenance,  on  me  Thy  grace  bestow  ; 

Keep  me  aloof  from  them  that  never  fear  Thee, 

Make  strong  and  true  my  heart  and  help  my  soul  to 
grow. 


If  Wisdom  reave  from  me  my  blest  illusions, 
Rob  me  of  zest  of  life  and  make  me  to  despise 

Its  truths,  or  lead  me  to  profane  intrusions, 

Then  keep  me  far  from  Wisdom,  let  me  not  be  wise. 


Let  not  the  sham  life  of  the  tinsel  city 

Whose  false  gods  all  the  blazing  fires  of  folly  fan 
Blast  the  green  tendrils  of  my  human  pity ; 

Oh,  let  me  still  revere  the  sacred  soul  of  man! 


95 


THE    MESSAGE. 


THE  MESSAGE. 

FRESH  wafts  of  fragrant  morning  stray 
Up  through  the  canon  from  the  bay. 
My  sunny  station  on  the  hill 
Looks  down  on  mazy  woods  that  fill 
The  eye  with  gay,  dew-jeweled  green 
Midst  which  the  songsters  trill  and  preen. 
Aloft  there  in  the  western  sky 
Bold  Tamalpais  lifts  him  high; 
So  near  in  this  clear  air  he  stands 
Methinks  with  him  I  might  shake  hands ; 
For  friendly  face  he  bends  on  those 
Who  would  enjoy  his  kinship  close. 


But  not  this  hour  such  sights  may  claim 
My  nighest  thought.    Of  one  who  came 
One  glad  day  to  this  roof  and  read 
His  lilted  lines  and  broke  our  bread — 
Of  him  I  dream.    His  calm,  kind  face 
And  rhythmic  notes  still  haunt  the  place. 
Over  his  passion-fluttered  page 
He  grandly  voiced  his  noble  rage 
Against  the  guilty  who  despoil 


96 


THE    MESSAGE. 

And  make  a  prey  of  those  who  toil, 
Against  the  selfish  men  of  greed 
And  all  that  foul  and  wolfish  breed. 
On  these  he  launched  his  lyric  curse 
And  lashed  them  with  hot  whirls  of  verse. 
His  airy  kin  approval  lent, 
While  veteran  redwoods  bowed  assent, 
And  greeting  on  a  soft  wind-wave 
The  genius  of  the  canon  gave. 


0  singer  of  the  godlike  brow ! 

1  would  that  thou  wert  with  me  now 
To  look  into  this  hill-rift  here 

And  read  Old  Nature's  chapter  dear. 
Melodious  marshaller  of  words, 
A  minstrel  thou  to  match  the  birds ; 
And  ever  hast  thou  stalwart  stood 
In  the  first  file  of  humanhood. 


Once  came  a  message  from  thy  pen 

Unto  me  here,  and  now  again 

I  send  it  forth  from  this  far  height 

To  thee  upon  a  shaft  of  light, 

Swift  o'er  the  leaves  by  dew-dots  pearled 

"  My  heart  to  thee  across  the  world !  " 


97 


SATIRE. 


SATIRE. 

WISER  the  honest  words  of  a  child 
Than  the  scornful  scholar's  fleers  ; 

Richer  a  fortnight  of  crudest  faith 
Than  a  score  of  cynic  years. 


98 


LOST    RIVER. 


LOST    RIVER. 

RAPTLY  I  listen  to  the  singing  pines 

Which  blend  their  music,  River,  with  thine  own; 
Raptly  I  trace  the  portents  and  the  signs 

So  thickly  in  these  awesome  airs  bestrown. 


Thy  waters  make  white  tumult  there  above, 
But  here,  in  deep  pool  sinking,  move  in  black 

And  circle  like  a  fear-tormented  dove 
That  turns,  death-dreading,  to  fly  back. 


But,  Stream,  there  is  no  backward  flight  for  thee ; 

Thou  must  to  this  scene  die  and  pass  below, 
Fulfilling  now  that  darker  destiny 

Prefigured  at  thy  birth  amid  the  snow : 


These  glad,  green  wilds  to  lave  and  love  and  leave, 
Thy  singing  here  to  cease,  nor  more  to  blend 

With  songs  of  these  sad  pines  which  grieve  and  grieve 
What  is  to  them  thy  melancholy  end. 

99 


LOST   RIVER. 


But  this  I  know :   far  from  thy  present  strife 
Thou  'It  glide  again  by  tree  and  trailing  vine. 

Intent  upon  thy  brighter  after-life, 
New  faith  I  feel  in  after-life  of  mine. 


100 


TO   EDWARD    CARPENTER    IN    ENGLAND. 


TO    EDWARD    CARPENTER    IN    ENGLAND. 

I  MARVEL,  friend,  that  arrant  Aristocracy, 

Soft-palmed,  anaemic,  still  endures 

Such  riving  thunderbolts  as  yours; 
That  never  has  your  drum-call  of  Democracy 

Cowed  those  vain  creatures  in  the  Court 

Of  Idleness  wherein  they  sport ; 
I  marvel  that  the  flat  notes  of  Hypocrisy 

Beside  the  vibrant  voice  of  you 

Are  heard,  the  false  tones  with  the  true ; 
And  strange  it  seems  to  me  that  base  Plutocracy 

Thinks  sacred  things  may  still  be  priced 

And  would  for  vile  gain  barter  Christ 
Yet  hold,  brave  heart,  unto  your  high  Theocracy, 

Your  God  whom  none  can  buy  or  sell ! 

Not  all  the  harshest  notes  of  Hell 
Shall  drown  your  rolling  drum-voice  of  Democracy ! 


101 


THE  DRONES   OF   TOWN. 


THE    DRONES    OF    TOWN. 

A  MIDSUMMER    FANTASY. 

FROM  this  high  window  niche  above  the  street 
I  look  down  on  the  dreamers  and  the  drones, 
So  bent  upon  their  nothings  and  their  noise, 
So  much  concerned  with  vague  affairs  of  soft 
Inconsequence.     These  indolent,  shiftless  ones, 
These  aimless  insects  on  the  heated  plate 
Of  pavement,  haste  them  with  a  hurried  tread 
And  such  an  air  of  circumstance  as  none 
Display  whose  toil  is  wholesome,  sane  and  true. 
Impracticals,  why  idle  here  ?    Why  mass 
Yourselves  to  go  about  this  fruitless  toil 
Of  idly  heaping  nothings  upon  nothings  ? 
O  indolents,  why  throng  you  aimless  here? 


Now  thoughts  float  back  to  me  of  large  affairs 
I  once  transacted  on  the  green  bay  shores 
Near  old  Point  Reyes.    An  ancient  city  there 
Peopled  by  all  the  free  and  flying  things 
That  love  the  sea  and  marsh  and  trees  and  skies 
Made  me  its  guest  while  I  my  dealings  had 
With  its  blithe  citizens.    I  walked  the  streets 


IO2 


THE  DRONES  OF  TOWN. 

Of  clear  and  wind-swept  sand  and  often  sailed 

In  stout  feluccas  with  the  fisher-folk; 

Once  lay  all  day  upon  a  little  deck 

And  commerced  with  the  calmly  eloquent  clouds, 

From  them  much  profit  taking,  as  I  thought. 

Another  day  I  tented  on  the  beach 

And  bathed  and  ran  and  lazed  in  shade  and  sun, 

Which  tanned  my  city  skin  a  golden  brown ; 

So  much  of  profit  did  I  reap  that  day 

And  more  the  next.    For  then  I  slowly  strolled 

Where  poppy  gold  gleamed  in  a  generous  field 

Which  gave  me  of  its  hoard  though  not  a  flower 

I  plucked,  but  Jeft  each  one  to  smile  and  lift 

Its  happy  head  to  Heaven.    That  afternoon 

I  bargained  for  and  bought  a  store  of  wealth 

From  abalone  shells  filled  full  of  gems 

And  rarest  inlays,  marvelous  to  view, 

Yet  not  the  least  gray  shell  I  brought  away. 


Another  day  I  strolled  along  the  strait 
Gray-bordered  on  the  north  by  stretching  sands 
And  on  the  south  by  stern-faced  rocky  scarps. 
The  wind  blew  landward  keen  and  cuttingly, 
Clouds  scudded  low  and  gulls  were  scurrying  o'er 
The  dunes,  while  wild  ducks  dotted  all  the  bay 
To  leeward  of  a  lean,  long  arm  of  shore ; 
And  kelp  and  sea  moss  floated  in  upon 

103 


THE  DRONES  OF  TOWN. 

A  tide  as  fleet  as  waters  of  a  flume. 

And  once  a  seal's  black  head  shot  upward  swift 

And  large,  soft  eyes  sought  mine  with  steadfast  gaze 

As  human  as  my  own  and  unafraid. 

Much  treasure  floated  in  upon  that  tide 

And  on  that  wind,  a  store  that  I  still  hold. 


And  so  for  weeks  of  traffic  such  as  this, 
And  each  day  deeply  breathing  golden  air, 
Until  a  lesser  business  called  me  home 
To  idle  here  with  dreamers  and  with  drones. 


104 


THE    RED    MENACE. 


THE    RED    MENACE. 

SOFT  as  a  shadow  creeps,  he  creeps; 
Light  as  a  leopard  leaps,  he  leaps; 

And  swift  as  any  dart 
Dashes  his  bright,  keen  blade, 
Flashes  his  glittering  blade; 

And  shall  it  pierce  her  heart? 


105 


TEUFELSDROCKH. 


TEUFELSDROCKH. 

WHEN  bristled  by  a  sally  rude 
Or  jostled  by  a  clown-mind  crude 
Or  piqued  by  plain  ingratitude, 
For  sweetest  balm  I  always  go 
To  Teufelsdrockh  of  Weissnichtwo. 

When  dollared  dolts  do  condescend 
And  all  their  vulgar  breath  expend 
Impressing  me,  I  gladly  end 

The  torment  and  my  time  bestow 
On  Teufelsdrockh  of  Weissnichtwo. 

Bejeweled  ones  and  overdrest 
Will  never  his  sweet  peace  molest ; 
They  know  he'd  tear  their  clothes  with  zest 
And  in  the  dust  their  baubles  throw- 
Bold  Teufelsdrockh  of  Weissnichtwo. 

Come,  come  my  friend,  oh,  come  with  me 
Where  you  his  kindly  face  may  see 
And  learn  his  clothes  philosophy. 

You  '11  love  him  well,  oh,  that  I  know,— 
Dear  Teufelsdrockh  of  Weissnichtwo. 

106 


SONNETS 


A    DIVINE    TRESPASS. 


A    DIVINE    TRESPASS. 

To  hearken  to  high  privacies  is  base, 

But,  ah,  that  "night  of  fine  clear  talk"  which  they, 

Our  foremost  mind  and  England's  had!    Oh,  pray, 

Is  it  a  sinful  wish,  in  that  rare  case, 

That  an  impersonal  Me,  devoid  of  face, 

Or  eye,  but  with  hearing  sense  to  stay 

In  secret  place  securely  hidden  away, 

With  no  trace  of  a  presence,  not  a  trace,— 

A  Me  effaced,— had  listened  rapt  and  caught 

And  kept  the  words  those  masters  said,  and  known 

The  sacred  soul-touch  of  those  two  ?    The  sin 

(Call  it  divine  eavesdropping,  would  you  not?) 

Were  it  so  vile  ?    Ah,  yes !  it  were,  I  own. 

But  what  a  rare,  sweet  trespass  't  would  have  been ! 


109 


THE    HIGHER    PATRIOTISM. 


J 


THE    HIGHER    PATRIOTISM. 

To  England's  Unwreathed  Laureate. 

BEST  patriot  of  Britain,  you  who  see 

With  the  fierce  insight  of  a  bold  Carlyle ! 

More  for  your  country's  honor  than  her  smile 

You  care,  intrepid  bard.     Deep  graved  should  be 

The  lesson  you  have  given.    Yes,  low  is  he 

Who  cannot  blush  for  his  poor  flag  when  vile 

Hands  fly  it  and  its  sacred  folds  defile 

In  hellish  war  of  Greed's  foul  captaincy. 

"My  country,  right  or  wrong?"     A  thousand  noes! 

Though  thundered  from  the  mountain-top,  I  must 

Spurn  that  false  word.    True  patriotic  fire 

Burned  in  no  heart  where  such  an  impulse  rose. 

Better  my  flag  were  dragged  in  dust,  for  dust 

Is  God-made  dust,  not  Baal's  blackest  mire! 


no 


THOREAU   OF   WALDEN. 


THOREAU    OF    WALDEN. 

LYCURGUS  of  the  pen,  austere  and  dread! 
You  made  a  stern  demand  upon  our  age, 
Nor  shall  we  yet  escape  you.    On  your  page, 
Which  tempts  to  high  adventure,  we  have  read 
Most  vivid,  valiant  truths  that  might  have  led 
From  paths  profane,  if  we,  like  you,  O  sage, 
Had  seen  the  way.    But  in  this  desperate  stage 
We  darkly  toil  for  bread  and  more  than  bread. 
You  speak  to  our  condition  and  provoke 
Heart-hunger  and  a  longing  for  the  free 
Exchange  of  all  our  false  ties  for  the  true. 
A  voice !    It  was  your  stalwart  spirit  spoke : 
"Oh,  why  not  venture  all  for  liberty?" 
Great  soul,  a  braver  race  must  answer  you! 


in 


YOU   FOURIER    FOLK! 


YOU    FOURIER    FOLK! 

GOD  knows  if  you  are  right.    I  do  not  know; 

Into  futurity  I  may  not  peer. 

You  have  fine  faith,  but  O  good  friends,  I  fear 

That  Humor,  pledge  of  sanity,  has  no 

Secure  place  in  you !    Still,  though  this  be  so 

You  may  work  better  things;    the  crude  and  drear 

Condition  which  we  see  about  us  here 

Perchance  for  you  may  take  up  staff  and  go. 

But  when,  intrepids,  you  Altruria  build 

You  must  make  man  a  something  more  than  man. 

Tear  wealth  in  bits,  apportion  every  shred? 

But  soon  again  hoard  harbors  will  be  filled 

With  spendings  of  unthrift,  unless  you  can 

Remold  the  weakling  heart  and  scheming  head. 


112 


UNDER    THE    OAKS    WITH    POE. 


UNDER   THE   OAKS    WITH    POE. 

To  harrow  me  is  your  high  purpose,  Poe, 
But  birds  are  trilling  from  the  boughs  above 
And  through  the  leaves  the  sun  sends  beams  of  love, 
Warm  love  to  all  the  animate  world.    Ah,  no ! 
Your  leaves  I  turn  as  idly  as  winds  blow 
Those  overhead.     Your  folk  of  Usher  move 
With  pale  intent,  though  with  keen  craft  you  strove 
To  set  them  strongly  forth  in  grewsome  show. 
My  friend !   in  this  place  plainly  I  perceive 
What  ails  your  fictive  art :    It  never  grew 
In  sun  and  rain.    But  still  it  brings  no  bane 
To  minds  made  hale  by  tonic  airs.    You  grieve 
No  heart  that  reads  old  Nature's  story  true, 
For  ever  frank  that  tale  and  ever  sane. 


' 


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